


Ladder

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin goes down on Belle in the dark castle. This is pure PWP, enjoy it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ladder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nothingeverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/gifts).



> So this was kind of written as a thank-you to nothingeverlost for being such a great mentor to all the rumbellers and partly because I just wanted to write smut.

                Belle is dusting some of his bookshelves, he is seated at his wheel, spinning, and the afternoon light filters into the room through the one curtain she persuaded him to open a few weeks ago. The winter light is scarcely strong enough to lift the gloom of the hall, and it makes her less sour with him. Though she is rarely sour; most of the time she is ready with a smile and flick of her dustrag at his shoulder over some unkind comment.

                Indeed, his housekeeper is usually in good spirits, and today is no exception, for Belle starts humming some tune under her breath, throwing off the silent cadence of his spinning. He loops the end of his thread over the spindle and turns to look at her. She’s on the ladder, leaning over to brush off some porcelain vases—fine things, gotten in a deal from a little black-haired mermaid, and she’d scooped them from an ancient shipwreck—with her blue skirt tied up about her knees.

                The sharp comment he was about to make dies on his tongue as his mouth dries up. She’s forgone stockings today, and is back in her soft, short leather boots. At first she was hesitant to appear as anything less than put-together, but at some point she discovered he doesn’t care—well, she thinks he doesn’t, because he keeps silent about it—and started dressing for comfort and efficiency. Rumpelstiltskin likes his view of her calves, strong from work and pale from winter, and he just looks her over for a second. Maybe she would dislike this, if she knew, but he doesn’t much care. She’s his favorite prize, his pale dark-haired nymph, and he likes to admire his prizes. In fact, he’d prefer more of her on display.

                She notices his gaze—probably distracted by the sudden silence of the wheel—and turns to look at him. He flicks his eyes up to her face, away from her pretty legs and backside, and puts on an innocent face.

                “Enjoying the view?” she asks dryly, and turns around on the ladder. He swallows and walks up to her, wetting his lips. Some words are flitting around in his head, some phrase from some stupid adventurer in the past:  _nothing ventured, nothing gained._  He stops below her and reaches up to tap her foot.

                “Come down a little,” he says, not making it too much of a command. She slides down a few rungs and he puts his hands on her calves, rubbing at the muscle. She makes an odd, stifled noise, but doesn’t protest.  _Good enough_ , he thinks, and leans onto his toes to kiss her ankle. She yelps at that, but steps down another rung, and he can put his mouth easily on her legs, kissing and nipping up to her knees.

                He doesn’t dare look up to see how she looks, if she’s even turned her head to look ‘round at him. He simply presses a wet kisses to the back of her knee and wonder if he dares move his hands higher. She hasn’t protested yet; he should get confirmation from her. He draws one hand up, under her skirt, over her knee, and up her thigh—not too high, lest he frighten her, but this is now far beyond behavior that either can brush off. His hand tightens around her leg and he runs his thumb over her skin: she’s soft enough to sleep on, he thinks.

                “Will you turn around for me, Belle?” he asks, loosening his hands, and expects a kick or slap—she might be the Dark One’s prisoner but she’s never been afraid of him—but instead she shifts, shuffles on the ladder and  faces him, eyes guarded. “You’re beautiful,” he says, because anything else escapes him. She bites her lip and her faces flushes a pretty dark rose.

                “I don’t mind,” she said, voice hoarser than usual, and he can’t stifle a grin as he returns his mouth to her legs, pulling her down another rung and inching up the hem of her skirt. Her thighs are hard muscles, covered in soft skin, and he bites down, enough to mark her, and she moans. Not a yelp of surprise or a cry of pain, but a moan of pleasure, very distinctly so. The sound gets him hard in a second, his cock leaping up against his leather breeches. Belle, his pretty, pure, maid, wants more of this, whatever this is.

                He jerks her skirt up further, licking the inside of her thigh, and she gasps again. He glances up to see her wrap her hands around the sides of the ladder to brace herself. He chuckles into her skin: she’s not going to keep her feet through the next bit. One more rung down, and he’ll be able to press his face between her thighs; he can smell her, this close, with her skirts pulled away. He pulls on her ankle, hinting at what he wants, and she slides down obligingly. He runs his hands up the sides of her legs, reaching her hips, and then drags down her drawers, leaving her half-covered by her skirt, but nothing else.

                Belle sucks in a breath at this, and he looks up at her, looking for dismay on her face. She is still careful, guarded, but there’s a touch of sweat at her lip and temple, a tightness in her neck, that he likes. He pulls her skirt up to her waist, leaving her dark curls exposed to his view, inhaling the heavy, honey scent of her. It might be coarse, but he licks his lips, seeing the damp beginning of arousal.

                He begins with a kiss to the crease of her hip and thigh, then turns it into a lick, and draws his tongue through her folds. Belle twitches over him, making a mewling sound, and he savors the taste of her: rich and musky. He’d forgo all his spirits if he could drink Belle instead. He’s achingly hard, but that can wait until he’s done here, until she’s shrieking under his touch. He laps at her again, finding the little bud just under her curls, and teases it with the tip of his tongue. Belle twitches again, her hips responding in animal instinct, and he smiles at it, pleased to wake her lust. Another lick, then another, and she moans again, softly. He pulls away for a second to see her face beginning to strain and twist with pleasure, flushed completely.

                He uses his lips and tongue on her, finding a quick pattern that has her shrieking over him, the ladder creaking against her movement. He pushes his tongue _into_  her for a moment, letting her try to settle herself, and imagines his cock buried inside such soft, tight flesh. One day. Better to think on finishing her, first.

                She cries out, again and again, at the touch of his mouth, and he grips her thighs, drawing one over his shoulder, so her heel presses into his back and keeps him close to her. She’s gone from flushed and uncertain to moaning and dripping in only minutes, and he drags her wetness up to coat the sensitive little bud that he’s teasing so mercilessly. She’s softer than silk, than fine leather, and sweeter than honey wine, and her moans are driving him mad.

                He holds her at the edge of pleasure for long minutes, her legs trembling, enjoying her soft ‘ohs!’ of pleasure and then her sharper, frantic cries. Her core is dripping with her arousal, and he feels it run down over his chin with a kind of savage, animal pleasure. Her thighs are twitching, trying to both raise her away from him and grind down against him, and he seizes them, aroused beyond reason that he is doing this to her, making her cry out, making her slick with want. He finally dares to suckle on her pink bud, drawing it into his mouth with firm lips. She  _screams_ , one hand coming to grip his hair, and her hips thrust forward, her heel driving into his back. Her other foot slips off the ladder and he cradles her hips, holding her up against the ladder, still sucking at her, trying to draw out her pleasure.

                “Rumpelstiltskin,” she half sobs, half laughs, and he slides her down easily, skirts tumbling over her again. She’s still drawn close to him, because he can taste her and doesn’t want to let go. His cock throbs, but he’s scarcely distracted, admiring the way her face is flushed for him, her eyes dark.

                “Feel good?” he asks, rubbing her back. She smiles, like she can’t help it, and touches his face hesitantly.

                “Like nothing else,” she says softly. He smiles smugly at her, sure he’s the first to get between her pretty thighs, first to savor the berry-and-straw taste of her, like summer. First to make her scream like that.

                He wants to kiss her, push her down beneath him and make her scream again, but she’s still shy, and he can take care of his little problem himself. Belle is sleepy-eyed and sated, and he doesn’t want anything else in the world. He holds her a second longer, and discovers a new fondness for his ladder.


End file.
